Extra Dark

Ggghhh. Gghhhuuhhhhh. Ggghuuuhhuuh.

Shit. I stare at the coffee machine – the $400 “investment” I’d bought with the intention of using for the next decade – as it gurgles itself to death. The sound is ugly. Loud. But as I try to get it to quiet down by doing the one thing I know how to – pushing every button – my mind sounds off with a different problem.

I’m late.

I glance at the clock on my oven: 4:21pm. I have to be on the east side, across town, by 5:15pm. Even if I leave now, the rush-hour train will take me no less than an hour, all in. But I can’t even leave now, I remind myself. Not with my stupid expensive coffee machine carrying out its own demise.

“Shit,” I say out loud this time. “And I need a coffee.”

Ggghhh. Gghhhuuhhhhh. Ggghuuuhhuuh. Gguuuhhuhuuhhh – exasperated by the noise, I turn the machine OFF and yank its handle up. The cylindrical pod, already clearly ravaged by the sharp teeth inside, is sitting there. Still. I lean down, taking a better look… and get a surprise whiff of the ground coffee beans inside. Bitter. Nutty. My whole body tingles.

“SHIT,” I say louder, now even more desperate for caffeine.

I lean my weight on the counter and push my face even closer, determined to see every aspect of the pod’s habitat with my own eyes. As I examine it, I can’t help but get frustrated: everything looks like it’s in working order. There’s nothing obviously broken. There’s nothing blatantly sticking out.

Turn it off, turn it on, I think to myself, referencing the extent of my troubleshooting skills. I stall for a second, lulled by the quiet in the air. Just do it, I tell myself. Holding my breath, I turn the machine back on and push the handle all the way back down.

There’s a second of silence. Of possibility. Of… hope…?

GGHHHHUUH. GGGGHHHHUHHHH. GGGHHUUHHHH.

“AH,” I leap back, surprised – like an idiot. The sound doesn’t stop on my account.

GGGGHHHHUHHHH. GUHHHUGGUGUUHHH. GHHUUGHGHGUUUUUU –

I jerk the cord out of the socket. Shaky – from the unexpected racket and the 10-hour work day I’d just finished – I catch my breath. With the machine now powered down, the air is calm. The gentle whirr of the heater, a necessity for October on the east coast, is the only discernible noise.

Focus, I order myself. You’re late.

Grabbing my bag and tugging my combat boots on, I promise myself that I’ll deal with the broken machine as soon as I get home. Facing any Friday without the guarantee of morning coffee is a non-starter, but tomorrow isn’t just any Friday – it’s a Friday where the rest of the world, or at least the rest of the country, is off work.

No Starbucks. No cute cafe down the street, my mind ticks off as I lock the door behind me. Your coffee is your problem. You might be unlucky, you might be cursed, but you’re not helpless, I continue – my inner voice harsh as ever.

Fix it.

***

At 5:14pm, I pull the door of The Owl open, eyes scanning the small-but-trendy watering hole. There’s a flock of finance bros at the bar (their pristine suits and manic voices a dead giveaway) and a group of well-off hipsters, likely in advertising, in the middle of the room – but other than that, every table’s filled by demure duos or trios.

No Georgie yet.

Ignoring the tinge of frustration growing inside me – I’d just jogged the two miles from the train to be punctual – I nod at the model-esque hostess who’s approaching me.

“Should be under Georgie Henderson,” I greet her, watching her long finger tap the iPad on the stand. When she looks up again, she’s glancing across the room, at a table by the wall. I can make out a jacket on a chair. A bag – or something bag-like – on the surface.

“I think she’s –”

“SAAAAAAM!”

I, along with the whole bar’s happy hour population, turn to face the sing-song scream. At the other side of the room, by the hallway to the restrooms, stands Georgie: 5’2 and platinum blonde, embodying the kind of no-fucks confidence that makes it clear some people really are just born with it. I can’t help but laugh – my frustration dissolving.

“Sorry, sorry,” she wraps her sweater-enclosed arms around me as soon as I’m within reach. “I walked from work and thought I was gonna pee myself. We’re here.” I follow her as she travels back to our table, grabbing the tote (I was right) off her place setting.

“You just left your bag?”

“No, I didn’t just leave my bag,” Georgie responds, crossing her legs. “I left my book bag. You know, the bag I use to take new books from the office home with me on the foundation’s dime,” she smiles. Georgie works at a nonprofit, doing some mixture of marketing and event planning. While the pay is shit – her forever-boyfriend fronts most of their living expenses – the perks, like library access and sports tickets, make up for it.

“What are you reading now?” I ask, leaning over to grab the tote off the seat beside her.

She flicks my hand away. “No. Absolutely not.”

“What?”

“That’s not why we’re here.”

“Why are we here, George?” I ask, genuinely curious. Because – while we are happy hour aficionados – we’re not usually bougie enough to brave the Financial District on a Thursday.

Her blue eyes stare back at me. “You’ve been here for almost a year, Sam.”

“What do you mean, here? Home?”

“Yes, home,” she rolls her eyes. “Jesse is fine now, he’s in school. Your grandma’s at the nursing home, getting taken care of. You built your business. You got your new place –”

“Georgie, I feel like I’m listening to some deranged biography on tape.”

“You’re not dating.”

I stare back at her, unable to hide my surprise. “I’m not… dating?”

“You’re not dating,” she repeats. “You refuse to get on the apps. You won’t let us set you up with anyone. You’re not flirting in public, you’re not up to anything weird in private, you’re not getting laid,” she ramps up the volume as she builds her case.

“Georgie.” I interrupt her, pointedly glancing at the tables around us. Then I focus back on her. “You don’t even know that. I could be –”

“What? You could be living some secret double life where you’re not working until 10pm every night? Where you’re not calling me on a Saturday at dinnertime to talk about what’s changed in the Cinnamon Toast Crunch recipe?”

“That was one time.”

“Sam, we’re 24. You have to be putting yourself out there. You don’t have to want marriage, a family, all of that, but you do have to have fun. I can see it in your face. You’re not having fun.”

My hand flits to my cheek. “That’s why you wanted me here? So you could chastise me for not flirting with a sufficient number of suitors?”

She gives me one of her looks. “No,” she counters, holding my gaze. “I wanted you here because there’s this brand new app that Meg – I work with her, remember?” I nod, vaguely recalling an artsy-looking woman in her early 30s. Georgie continues. “That Meg just told me about. It’s in its trial phase, invite-only. And get this. It’s already been live in New York and LA, but it just opened its doors to a third city. Ours.”

“Georgie…” I start, but she’s already blowing past my hesitation. Her finger scrolls for something on her phone as she keeps talking.

“Apparently the co-founder went to school with Meg here, and she was adamant this city was its next release spot before they go global.” She finds what she’s looking for, turning the phone to face me. I read the single white word on the black screen.

“Locale?”

“Locale. The premise is you don’t get a name or any identifying information, you just get the people who are less than two miles away from you. Their photos, their prompt answers. That’s it.”

“It sounds like every other attempt at a dating app,” I sigh at her. “Trying to be edgy and special, but just as hopeless as the rest.” Her unblinking expression tells me my take is not the right one.

“You’re gonna try it.”

“Georgie –”

“Sam. How long have we been friends?”

I look back at her.

“A really fucking long time,” she answers for herself. “I love you to death, I want you to live the fullest life you can possibly live. And right now, you’re not cutting it.”

“That’s a messed up thing to say –”

“Stop being a pussy,” she taps her phone screen, still facing me on the table. “I’m sending you the access code when Meg gets it to me later,” she continues. “You’re downloading the app. Now…” Her eyes dart around for a server. When she clocks him – taking the hipster table’s order – she immediately pivots her plan and waves down the hostess.

“Yeah?” The doll-eyed girl appears.

“Cool if we order with you?”

“Uh –”

Georgie doesn’t wait for the answer. “We’ll do the barolo,” she taps the bottle list, pretending to be someone who spent a semester abroad (instead of someone who grew up with a high-functioning alcoholic father).

“The full bottle?”

“The full bottle,” her megawatt smile radiates. “We’re celebrating.”

“We’re not celebrating,” I roll my eyes at her as the hostess pads away. “I’ll think about it, but I’m not just downloading another stupid app to placate –”

“We’re not celebrating you,” she laughs. “We’re celebrating me.”

I wait to see if she’s joking, but when her smile maintains its wattage and her nose scrunches the way it always does when she has something to confess, I re-focus. “Did you get a promotion again? I thought they just threw one at you a month ago. You’ve got to be the most celebrated humanitarian event planner to ever –”

“I told Johnny next year is the year,” she interrupts.

I gasp. Johnny – Georgie’s boyfriend since college – has been trying to lock her down ever since they celebrated their first anniversary: six years ago. While she obviously loves the guy to death, she’s had no interest in welcoming the government into their relationship.

Until… well, now, I guess.

“You’re getting engaged?!” I whisper-yell, as shocked about her change of heart as I am about us being adult enough to even be having this conversation.

“It won’t be until the new year, January at the earliest,” she explains. “But I told him as soon as New Years passes, I’m fair game.”

I take in my best friend. I’ve watched her cry her eyes out after 8th grade formal, eat her way through a dozen cinnamon rolls on a dare, and streak – butt naked – before accepting every job from 17 on. (“It brings me good luck,” she’d laugh as she’d run.) I’ve seen her through every milestone, through every heartbreak and laugh-so-hard-she-cries attack, and now, I’m seeing her here. Seeing her eyes twinkle. Seeing her overflow with excitement (even though she hides the hopeless romantic part of herself like a pro to everyone else).

“You’re getting engaged,” I repeat, the weight of it hitting me. She grabs my hand over the table, as solemn as I’ve ever seen her.

“Sam,” she says, “we’re getting engaged.”

***

We’re getting engaged.

Georgie’s words kept replaying through my head as I made my way home. They kept replaying as I made a pit stop at an all-purpose store to buy an ultra-cheap coffee machine, and they kept replaying as I set it up on the counter, next to its fancier cousin.

We’re getting engaged.

Now I’m sitting on a barstool at the kitchen island, stuffing the last pretzel in the bag – smothered in hummus – into my mouth. I’m tipsy, but more importantly, I can’t stop thinking about everything Georgie told me. About the timeline she’d given Johnny. About the certainty in her voice.

There are only two things I’m certain about at 24, I say to myself as I let my feet walk me back over to the fridge. I’ll do whatever I can to make it professionally, and…

I pull open the fridge door.

…I’ll never have enough food in the fridge.

I scan the shelves. Olives. Cherry tomatoes. Hot sauce bottles. Leftover fries. With a sigh, I grab the styrofoam container of fries – real classy, Sam – and carry it back to the island. As I proceed with my dip-in-hummus method, I use my other hand to open my phone’s calendar, running through tomorrow’s schedule.

-8am, call with Scott.

-10am, feedback meeting with Paul and team.

-1-3pm, work session with Matteo.

-4pm, check-in with Analise.

Of course it’s a holiday Friday for everyone else and an oh-so-stuffed marathon for me, I roll my eyes inwardly. But even as I think that, I know I’m grateful for the busyness.

It’s taken me 11 months to build my client list – international client list, I correct – from scratch, and while being a one-woman show has been exhausting, it’s also been thrilling. Gratifying.

But still… lonely. As much as I hate to admit it, I know Georgie was right about my social life. Sure, I’m a constant at our bi-weekly girls nights, and sure, I go to the movies with Jesse – my little brother – every Sunday, but for a 24-year-old who used to close out the bar scene of New York City on a regular basis, I’ve slipped a long way down.

Did I really call her about Cinnamon Toast Crunch on a Saturday night? I shake my head, perturbed by my own behavior.

Before I can stop it, my finger swipes me out of the calendar and into the app store. I dip another fry into hummus, the second wave of embarrassment revving a sense of morbid curiosity up inside me.

Georgie had sent me the access code as soon as I got home, so I could gain entry if I wanted to. And Georgie had said that it was exclusive, with Meg’s friend – the co-founder – only letting in people she could personally vouch for.

I type an “L” into the search bar. Then an “O.” Then a “C.” As relevant hits populate the search, I see the same modern-white-font-on-black-background logo I saw at the bar.

LOCALE.

I click the app name, my thumb hovering over the download button. Half of me feels pulled in by the promise of something new, but the other half feels reluctant – doubtful that this new gamified version of online dating will be anything but more of the same.

Before I can make a decision, my phone starts vibrating. Dramatically.

---- “INCOMING CALL: SCOTT LUTE.” ----

Damn it, I think to myself, wiping the hummus off my fingers and forcing the carefree wine haze out of my mind. I press the green button, letting the voice of Scott – one of my very first clients – into the privacy of my home.

“Sam?” He says as soon as I answer.

“Hey Scott,” I match his serious tone. “What’s going on?”

“Sorry to bug you. We’ve got a situation. The pitch we’re rolling with tomorrow –”

“For the new firm?”

“Right, we just got our hands on some final numbers. I’d plug-n-play them myself if they didn’t change the narrative…”

“But they are different from the predictions,” I finish for him, realizing what he’s saying. The presentation I’d spent the past four weeks working on was now obsolete. In order for it to match up with the evidence, it’d have to be redone.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t critical,” Scott says, the urgency clear.

“What time’s the meeting?” I ask, my eyes darting to the oven clock. 11:14pm.

“We’re there at 3."

“I can jump into it now,” I tell him, walking over to my desk. The severity of the situation isn’t lost on me: Scott’s company, a maker of gaming software, has been on a mission to help parents gain more control over kids’ video gaming. It’s secured a good amount of funding since its founding two years ago, but Scott has big ideas – and big ideas need bigger pockets.

Tomorrow’s meeting with a new VC firm might be enough to get him what he needs, so to lock down the investors, we’ve been working on a new – more personal – pitch. But that pitch needs to be grounded in reality to get us anywhere. “Did you forward me the numbers?”

“Yeah,” Scott exhales. “Are you serious? You can do it?”

I’m already seated, pulling my laptop open. “Scott, we’ve been working on this for a month. We’re not about to throw our hands up now.” I enter the shared file then open my inbox, finding the email with the updated metrics. “Let’s keep our 8am on the docket. I don’t think these numbers will take me more than six hours to implement into the existing big picture, but either way, I’ll have the rejigged version ready by then.”

“You’re a lifesaver. You understand that? Triple your rate for however long this takes you.”

“Get some sleep, Scott,” I respond, my brain already immersed in the task at hand. “We need you sharp.”

After a few more rounds of thank you’s, he hangs up. I adjust myself in my chair and start typing.

It might take me all night, but this adrenaline rush is incomparable, I think to myself, Georgie’s engagement, the new dating app, and the Cinnamon Toast Crunch embarrassment all leaving my mind. If I get it done, I’ll make $3k while everyone else is sleeping.

Come on, Sam, I order myself. Get. It. Done.